


Sugar and Knives

by Anonymous



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Choking, Depressed Gavin Reed, Gavin Reed Needs a Hug, Gavin Reed Whump, Hurt Gavin Reed, Multi, One Shot Collection, Suicidal Gavin Reed, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, come one come all, literally just gavin abuse, to this angst shitshow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Just a collection of Gavin-related one-shots. It won't all be whump (probably).May deal with triggering/disturbing content. Please read with caution. Warnings will be at the top of each chapter.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Index

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bunch of one shots that i'll revive now and hten when i decide to start beating up gayvin weed again. no guarantee it'll be good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin

Will be updated as continued

  1. Attempted suicide + unhealthy mindset (M)
  2. Unhealthy coping mechanism (asphyxiation) (M-E)
  3. ?


	2. Written at 12:56 AM. Let it hurt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please don't read this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T.W: Suicide attempt, self-harm reference, hospital room, unhealthy mentality, suicidal behavior

-and he thinks, he wants it to _hurt_.

He's lying on the floor of the small tub, the enamel chipping from the sides and the shower beating cold bullets into his chest, soaking his shirt and pants. Warming slowly into something tepid, he can hear the pipes begin to squeal with the effort. He shivers.

He should do it now, before he loses his nerve. He's put it off for so long, now. And for once, he's gotten this far-the knife is in his hands, the shower is running, his things are put away. All the other times, he only got as far as the the note, the note he could never seem to get right and had been the reason again and again for his hesitation. This time the note is done, and taped to his bathroom door. An explanation for anyone who would care to look.

He is exhausted. He is numb. And he is fucking _done _with feeling numb, he is done with feeling regret and guilt and the sadness and the anger that all broiled down into this overwhelming, empty _numbness_. He's been staving it off as much as he can with fist-fights and arguments and pointless little outbursts that do nothing but bring temporary relief, a brief blip of fury in an ocean of void. The others have figured it out, and ignore him now, and he knows as much as them that he is obsolete. He's been obsolete for a long time, even before Connor, just an interesting, angry little man who was good for a show when he snapped at a perp and couldn't seem to keep up with his paperwork. Fowler has been done with him for a long time. Gavin knows the others are too, only paying him mind for the politeness over the actual usefulness.

The water was warming now. He takes a deep breath and shucks a sleeve up to his elbow, baring a pale forearm crossed crossed with raised scars. Some old. Many new. Some bleeding, the water making it run off in a fading ochre down his skin, stinging and raw and God, Gavin _relishes _that, that pain, that assurance, the way it bled out his stupid temper, his stupid sadness, his stupid everything. It is stupid, he knows, it is stupid and edgy and in a more sober state he might've cringed at the thought of anyone finding these, of anyone knowing of this and all the bullshitted obligatory concern that would follow. The suggestions, the reassurances that "hey, you can talk to me" as if they truly wanted to listen. As if any of them didn't silently think that he deserved it.

But he's thought too much. In a few hours, he won't have to look at it again.

It's familiar, the bite of the blade to his flesh, but this time over the sensitive, untouched skin over his wrist, where the pulse was. His heartbeat races-he waits for it to fall-and exhales slowly.

He presses down-

* * *

The doorbell has buzzed for a minute, twelve-point-three-seconds, and no one has answered.

"_Connor, I'm just saying, you don't need to check on him,"_ Hank says, voice tinny in Connor's HUD. _"He's probably fine, you know Reed-_"

"I do know Reed, Lieutenant, and that is precisely the point," Connor interrupts, releasing the button for an instant before continuing his assault. It was most strange for Reed to be so late, and moreso, so out of communication. "Even on his sick days, he calls, or at the very least, texts. But not today."

"_Maybe he's hungover, or some shit. He has been drinking pretty hard lately. He's on a bit of a losing streak._" Hank says drily, and Connor thinks that if he were human, he would sigh.

"I would like to hope that your coping mechanisms are not universal, Lieutenant."

"_Oh, fuck off._"

"What is the customary amount of time to wait before answering a door?" Two minutes, fifty-three-point-seven-seconds. The bell is a low, rattling hum, obnoxious and harsh. Connor makes a note to apologize later to any tenants he might've bothered.

"_He's really not answering?_"

"I detect no sound or reaction whatsoever."

"..._Go inside."_

"Lieutenant?"

"_Go check on him, dumbass._"

"Right." And Connor looks to the knob, carefully taking note of the lock. It's standard issue, keycard activated, fairly old. One good kick would break it free-

-except that-this can't be right-Connor's analysis says it is unlocked.

The door swings open to a room that looks as though it has just been occupied by new tenants. Cardboard boxes sit, stacked throughout the living room. The carpet has indentations indicating that it was recently vacuumed. through the open bedroom door at the end of the hallway, Connor can see more boxes. More evidence of new arrival.

Or sudden departure.

"_Connor?_"

"He's not here." Connor says, slowly. He cannot detect any life form, nothing to indicate that loud, raucous detective. "He is-his rooms are all cleaned. His things are packed away. Like he was intending to leave."

"..._Shit. Connor, you're sure he's not there?_"

"I need to check the rooms. But I detect no signs of life notable enough to indicate him." The kitchen is devoid of cutlery and food, and has no indication of having fed anyone asides from the empty bottles in the bin. The bedroom is in a similar state, the bed stripped of sheets and mattress bare. The walls are white and empty and aglow with the sun, streaming through naked windows. Dust floats serenely.

There's a note on the only closed door of the house.

And all it says is '_sorry_' and '_call the police'_

"-_nnor. Connor?! What's going on?"_

He mutes Hank and opens the bathroom door.

* * *

Hell smells like antiseptic.

And then Gavin opens his eyes.

He's in a room, painted eggshell colors with a big, frost-colored light above him. He blinks, squints, and realizes he's lying in a bed. He tries to move, and finds pain, in his left arm. Needles stuck deep in his veins and elbow make it difficult to move them. Beeps--a monitor sits to his left, green lines wiggling fuzzily in his blurred eyes.

"You're awake."

Hank.

The man sits at a chair by the bed and looks like shit. Shadows beneath his eyes. A scowl on his face. Relief, somewhere-though Gavin's probably reading that wrong, it's probably disappointment-and anger too.

"Wh-y-" He clears his throat. It's painfully dry, though he doesn't take the cup Hank offers him, choosing the glare and cough instead. "-hy-am I-here?"

"Connor found you."

Ah. Of course.

_ It was Connor, it was_ Connor, _as if that wasn't enough insult to injury that his comatose body should've been discovered by fucking CONNOR, the android boy-bot who seemed determined to make people adore him--_

"Oh." He looks down. His arms are clean, wrapped up in gauze and white. The scars are hidden. The evidence of last night is buried in a thick layer of cotton and shame, the bandages a white beacon that are almost as damning as the scars themselves.

" 'Oh?' You idiot, you fucking idiot-" Hank starts, and it's comforting how quickly he gets angry. The familiarity of it all is comforting, because count on Hank to lecture you even after you've nearly-missed death. "How long have you--you know what, don't tell me. You should've talked to someone. Hell, you could've talked to _me-"_

"Could I have? Hank?" He laughs derisively and suddenly, and the sound scrapes at his throat. "_Could I?_ You've been drunk off your ass for the past several years and all you've done since then is treat everyone else like shit because that's what you felt like. Do you think anyone in their right mind would talk to you? Of all the fucking people in this goddamn precinct?" It feels good, talking. It hurts to talk, but it also feels so fucking good to redirect his disappointment, his anger and hatred, onto someone else. A familiar target. "You've been wanting me gone for ages, and you know it."

"You-" Hank's face works, from anger to shock to something deep and unreadable and Gavin can't stand to look at him anymore, he wants water but the only water is threatening to spill from the cup in Hank's slack hand and Gavin will be damned, but his stupid undying stubborn pride won't let him accept this from Hank. "Okay, yes. I don't like you. But that doesn't mean-Gavin, I don't want you_ dead_."

"Maybe you should," He snaps back. "Because it's what I would do. What the fuck have I done for you, Anderson? What the fuck have I done for anyone?" 

"Well I'm not you!"

"Says Mister Russian Roulette." It's a low blow, but it's satisfying. Hank's free hand curls into a fist, and Gavin hopes he throws it. His skin itches beneath the bandages. He wants a fight again. "Fuck off."

Hank stands there, looking furious, seemingly shaking with the effort of not trying to strangle Gavin then and there. At least that's what Gavin is hoping he's considering. It'd be a fitting way to go.

But instead, the man sighs again. "Gavin. I don't want you dead. And I never have."

The words bring more anger, more of that familiar rage, "You fucking liar-"

"No. I'm serious. Listen, I get it, you think you deserve it, and you think you'd be doing people a survive by-you know-"

"Let me do what I want with my fucking life, Anderson-"

"-but it's not going to work. It's not worth it, Gav. I-hell, I can't make this sound motivational. But believe me, it's not worth it."

And who is Hank _fucking _Anderson to tell him what is or isn't worth it?

He is done listening. Whatever drugs they pumped into him are taking him again, eating away his consciousness, and he leans back down against the pillow. "Leave."

"Gav-"

"Didn't you hear me? Get the fuck out of here!" He snaps, and his voice cracks harshly with the strain. "Go back to your fucking plastic pet and leave me alone, okay? Fuck off."

Hank stares a moment longer, and does. The paper water cup is clenched in his trembling fist.

It's better this way, he tells himself. He sighs and closes his eyes. Hopefully a nurse would come by soon and he can fast-talk his way out of an asylum, or something. They couldn't keep him under wraps forever. And secretly, he's glad Hank is the one who came to bother him.

Now the man won't feel remorse when Gavin finally does go.


	3. Little Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gavin uses sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism while at work (it's not public, they're in a private room), and he's getting it from RK900. This one is an NSFW entry. While there's nothing too, too explicit, there's description of rough kissing and choking. 
> 
> There is use of safe words

RK900 kisses like it doesn't know how, which probably isn't far from the truth.

Gavin notices this distantly, like reading a passing sign from a speeding car. Barely-aware. All that frantic tongue and teeth and drool that's dripping a wet line down his chin. Honestly, it's kind of impressive how lucid he still is, considering the hand that's being slowly tightened around his neck, throttling air from his lungs and making everything else feel warmer, softer. Blurred out, like the only real things that exist are RK900 and his stupid kissing.

RK900 pulls back, and Gavin wants to scream. The fingers at his neck ease, and the first, slow inhale he takes flushes away the previous warmth.

"Color?" It asks, and the stupid little mood ring on its forehead spins wild, headache-inducing. Red and yellow and blue and blinding and if Gavin's wrists weren't pinned above his head he might reach and tear it off.

"Green." He snarls back. It doesn't sound like a snarl, not even to him. It's wheezed. His head spins. "Come on."

RK900 complies, tipping its head forward, and Gavin tilts his chin up to give access to his neck. Those inexperienced lips mouth at his jaw, slow and soft and warm and nothing that Gavin needs right now. The hand that holds Gavin's wrists releases, for favor of holding him at his hip, and Gavin would be tempted to argue that they're not _lovers_, _so stop treating me like one_-if he wasn't busy focusing on the fact that he was getting strangled again, too busy letting himself go slack to RK900's motions, reaching weakly to clutch at that stupid jacket with trembling hands...

A thigh presses up between his legs. Teeth close at the soft skin at the junction beneath Gavin's jaw. He shudders, a full-bodied thing that knocks his head against the drywall, and sighs. When he presses down, he feels only the slightest give in RK900's leg, the pressure bordering the line between pleasurable and painful.

And it's-

It's good.

It's what he needs. And when that grip on his waist drags him forward, just a bit, generating friction at the same time that those teeth nip hotly at his throat, just above his Adam's apple-

A high sound escapes his clutch-shut throat.

* * *

"Was that good?"

No. He still feels the same as before, if not more disgusting. Count on him to try and get his rocks off in one of the abandoned file rooms at work, and while on duty, no less. The only difference between now and then is the lingering warmth, in the fading touch on his side, on his neck, tingling on his lips. Fading with every second.

"Fine." He rasps.

"Detective-"

"Let's go. They're going to get suspicious if we're gone any longer."

"...Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ew

**Author's Note:**

> self care is choosing a character to self project onto and then beating them up


End file.
